Color Blind
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: Whistler just wants to know one thing: Did Liz really send him out to a bar in a pink coat? Whistler/OC, with the other characters co-starring.


**Written as a 'gift' to the David Strathairn community on LJ. **

This place was called _Pulse_. Well, he supposed at least, it was living up to its name.

His head was certainly throbbing from the continually pulsating beat of the music (played at a volume for the sighted but deaf people out tonight, he figured). The incessant yelling of the customers (they had to yell to hear themselves over the music) and the heavy scent of booze, smoke and sweat which hung in the air weren't helping matters.

Even if his hearing wasn't as well-tuned as it was, he thought he'd probably still hate this place. Perhaps he was getting old.

He should head home. It wasn't like he was going to get lucky anyway, despite Liz's best efforts.

"Don't wear the dark glasses!" she'd said.

Apparently he shouldn't make it obvious he had a handicap.

"No one will tell from the way you move around," she'd insisted. "Unless you dance. Don't dance," she'd warned, her small hand squeeze the only thing saving him from taking offense at her less than complimentary comment about his dancing.

Then, she'd dressed him up. Jeans (to show off his nice ass, she'd murmured), a new silk shirt (taupe; he still wasn't sure what that was), tie (it felt too thin, but she'd said that was all the trend), and a jacket which he assumed was awful (considering Marty had made a strange snorting noise when he'd pulled it on). She'd also 'styled' his hair (lose the hat, she'd admonished) and now he had to remember not to touch it or some strange greasy substance ended up sticking his fingers together.

He was now sitting at the _Pulse_ bar in this new get-up. His fairy godmother was dining with her prince charming at some expensive restaurant across the bay. And he was left with Mother on one side of him, and Carl on the other.

Mother was explaining what he thought was _really_ happening in Somalia. He wasn't sure to whom. He heard no responses to Mother's conspiracy theory at all. So, he concluded Mother had either put his audience to sleep or _he_ was the intended audience. If it was the latter, he'd just slide into his best oblivious-blind-guy routine and let it be.

Carl was explaining how they did the special effects in the latest Hollywood blockbuster to a young lady who didn't sound old enough to be served in a bar. She did, however, sound suitably impressed with Carl.

At least someone was getting lucky tonight.

He swallowed down the dregs of his beer. If he ordered another one, it would be because of sheer boredom, rather than thirst. Probably not the best idea. Nothing worse than a blind blind man, he reminded himself.

He stood. He might as well head on home. Drinking and dancing were now both off his list, and it was a little bit too late in life to take up cigarettes.

He bid Carl and Mother a quick farewell, not giving either a chance to talk him around into staying longer, and shuffled towards the exit.

A group of young women drifted past him, their twittering conversation leaving him engrossed. He exhaled a surprised breath at the details of their shared confidences (should she sleep with him? should she sleep with her instead?). Everyone was getting lucky tonight!

Still a little distracted, his progress was halted when he slammed into a body, female by the soft feeling of it. And a female holding a drink, if the cold wet feeling seeping through the flimsy shirt was anything to go by.

After the winded 'oomph' sound she made, she immediately let him have it: "Why the hell don't you look where you're going?"

Her voice startled him. He would expect such hostile words to be joined with a shrill tone. Instead, she almost sung the words.

"Sorry," he mumbled, grappling into his pocket for the napkin he'd lifted off the bar earlier. With an automatic reflex, he reached out to wipe the drink off her. Unfortunately, she was shorter than he reckoned (damn, the noise is this place was unsettling) and somehow he ended up patting a firm rounded part of her body that could only be one thing.

"Hey!" she shrieked.

"Um-" Obviously her top was extremely low-cut. She was showing off a lot of exposed skin, he thought, skimming his fingers along to experience how smooth and soft it was.

"Get off, jerk!" she growled, giving him a shove.

He stumbled back a little. Yeah, he might not be getting lucky, but he'd definitely been copping a feel. Not the noblest moment of his life.

"Sorry, I'm a little-"

"Drunk," she answered for him. "Of course you are. And that's why you barreled into me, and that's why you just _had_ to grab my breast."

"No. I mean, yeah." Some of what she said was true, after all. Damn, she was right, he had been a jerk. "No, I'm not drunk."

"Yeah, right. I actually saw you weaving your way to the john earlier in the night. You must have sunk a few more by now."

He grinned. "You noticed me earlier?" If he wasn't mistaken, he'd noticed her earlier too.

"Can hardly miss you in that jacket," she continued sarcastically. "What color would you call that?"

"I have no idea," he replied calmly. "Can I buy you a drink? To replace the one we've just worn? My name's Whistler, by the way."

"What? That's it. I am so over smartass men tonight. I don't think you're funny."

"You don't? I'm usually told that's the only thing going for me."

"Look, you might think your good looks and charm can get allow you to break the rules, but you need to try one of the other girls. I'm not interested."

Her voice was drifting up from the floor. She had obviously crouched down.

With a frown, he crouched down beside her, feeling around. Something round, metal...A tray! She was a waitress! That's why it didn't make sense to her that he would buy her a drink.

"This is a tough joint if accidentally running into someone is breaking the rules," he commented.

"No," she snapped. "Rule number one: look but don't touch."

Still confused, he laughed at the irony anyway. Her words suddenly registered. "Good looks?"

"Oh no, you're one of them, aren't you?"

He stiffened. One of them? Not the most politically correct way to put it.

"You're recently divorced, I take it? Little wife wasn't blowing you enough and now you need someone to fawn all over you and tell you how hot you are."

He relaxed a bit. She wasn't talking about his blindness at all.

"Wow," he murmured. "You certainly have some hostility happening there. I'm not sure if I'd rate your customer service high on a survey."

Suddenly, she sighed. "You're right. Sorry," she mumbled.

Mel took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. Every night it felt like she could count on some man (in most cases, she was using that term loosely) grabbing her on the ass or the chest.

She'd been so excited when she'd been called in and offered this job. She could finally get out of Rick's life for good. A little money in the bank was all she needed. Then, they'd told her the catch. She didn't only have to collect the dirty glasses and empty bottles from around the bar; she had to do it wearing no top.

She'd said no initially (it's your choice baby, Rusty, the manager, had drawled), but then she'd remember the hovel she was living in, and the asshole husband that came with it.

Six months, she'd told herself. I'll do this for six months, pay for a divorce, find a new apartment, get on with my life.

It had been eighteen months.

The divorce came through six months ago, she had a nice apartment (okay, she was sharing with one of the other girls, but at least it was clean) and yet, she was still here. She was a bigger loser than any of these customers.

She looked over at the guy she'd yelled at. He was still as gorgeous as she'd thought when she'd seen him come in with his two friends. They'd both hooked up with some women (a young girl who knew no better, and an older woman who Mel assumed was a desperate divorcee too), but he'd sat at the bar most of the night by himself. He'd been quiet, no trouble. And he hadn't done that annoying leer at her breasts every time she went past, or took a glass from one of the tables in that section of the bar, like most men who sat alone.

Maybe that's why she was so irrationally irritated by him now. In the end, he'd turned out to be just like all the others.

She should admit she was also irritated that she'd reacted to his touch (which was a definite first).

"Eighteen months," she murmured. "I've been working here for eighteen months."

He cocked his head. He had a habit of doing that, she'd noticed. It was kind of cute.

"You wanna work somewhere else now?" he asked.

"Yes. Now. Right now."

"I have a friend who might have some contacts. You could get a job singing."

She frowned, and quickly replayed her conversation with this guy again.

"How do you know I can sing?"

"Oh, I can hear it in your voice. It's this lovely melodic tone you have when you talk."

She blinked. He was kidding, right?

"And," he continued, grinning broadly, "I did hear you when you were emptying the trash about a half hour ago. That was you, wasn't it?"

She thought back. Whitney Houston's version of I'm Every Woman had been playing; one of her favorite songs. She'd been singing along as she threw some of the garbage bags into the skip in the alley out back.

"You followed me out there?"

Just her luck, the first guy she'd been attracted to in eighteen months was some crazy stalker.

"No. I was in the bathroom. I heard you through the window."

She thought about the tiny, high windows in the mensroom. "You only heard me? You couldn't see me, right?"

"I guarantee I never saw you." He grinned. Her own mouth twitched in response. "It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she admitted. "It was."

"You're talented. I reckon Liz would know someone-"

"Your friend is a woman?"

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Is that a problem?"

She laughed. She'd been introduced to lots of people who were willing to 'help' her in the music industry. Most of them got the word 'help' and 'pimp' completely mixed up.

"What's going on? Everything okay, Mel?"

She swung around. Despite his concerned words, she knew Rusty was giving her a warning that it was time to stop fraternizing with the customers and get back to work.

Suddenly it occurred to her, she'd gotten rid of Rick, but she was still putting up with Rusty.

"Right now," she murmured again. It seemed like a good idea. "Whistler? You got a car?"

"No, no. I only get behind the wheel when psychopaths are about to kill one of my friends."

For some reason, his weird sense of humor calmed her.

She turned back to Rusty, determined. "I'm sorry, Rusty. You'll have to find someone else to flash her assets for peanuts. I quit."

He grabbed her arm and tugged her away from Whistler. "What are you talking about? You're going to skip out in the middle of your shift with Helen Keller's brother?"

Confused, she glanced back at Whistler.

"Well, you know Helen Keller was blind _and_ deaf," Whistler said mildly. "I might be blind, but I don't have trouble in the hearing department."

She peered closer. The way he'd run into her, grabbed her, his come-backs; they all made a little more sense now.

He wasn't drunk. Or a creep.

She did a quick calculation of what was up in her locker on the first floor. Her money and apartment key were squeezed into the pocket of her jeans. She should go and get her jacket, but it was one she'd found at the op shop. She could afford to leave it behind to get the desired effect of walking out on Rusty in such a dramatic fashion. Of course, she couldn't exactly walk out of here looking like this.

"Can I borrow your coat, Whistler?" she asked.

"Only if you tell me what color it is," he replied, immediately removing the coat and holding it out toward her.

0.0.0.

Whistler thanked the waitress who delivered his third coffee.

They'd found a quiet diner where Mel had proceeded to tell him the gory details of her shitty life.

"I have a confession," she said, the soft chinking sound indicating she was stirring her drink.

"I've had something stuck between my teeth for the past hour, haven't I?"

Her laughter made his stomach muscles clench.

"No."

"It's a pink coat, isn't it?"

She laughed again, but didn't say 'no'. Damn, Liz had put him in a _pink_ coat?

"I just wanted you to know that I'm black," her words came out in a rush.

"Oh, okay. Well, that changes everything," he drawled. "Because, obviously, for a blind guy there are so many shitty role models whom just happen to be black."

She sniffed.

"Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder...They just totally embarrass the whole blind community."

As she kept laughing, he knew he'd been mistaken earlier. He was the luckiest bastard on earth tonight.

The End


End file.
